


I Can Always Show My Everything To You

by claimedbydaryl



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Sex, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Coital Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, look at those tags go from 100 to 0 real quick, shiro really does love u baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claimedbydaryl/pseuds/claimedbydaryl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's fear that haunts Keith, those lingering memories of loss—but Shiro never fails to remind Keith of what they share now, in the space where they're allowed to be vulnerable with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Always Show My Everything To You

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: "Shiro Loves You, Baby."

The first thing Keith awoke to was the ache of his knuckles, at the white-knuckled pressure of it. He opened his eyes to the dim surroundings of his room, but it was disconnected—like his memories had coalesced into one terrifying reality.  

Keith swallowed, his pulse a thunderous beat in his ears, a loud and violent thrum of dread. He willed his body to calm, but his efforts were in vain. His body was already strained taught, like a bowstring on the verge of snapping. Fear rose fast in his throat, bitter and wrong, and Keith was pushing upwards from the mattress on spread hands to escape.

Despite the faint glimmering of auxiliary light, Keith was plunged in a thick shroud of darkness, and his instincts were urging him to fight, to attack. He could recognise the familiar settings of the Castle of Lion’s interior, and the minimalistic furnishings of his room, but the assurance of his surroundings was lost to Keith.

Nothing could dissuade his emotions from the oppressing and immovable weight of the knowledge—that the Kerberos mission had failed.

Because Keith wasn’t safe—he was waking up alone in his room as a Garrison cadet, and then the abandoned shack in the desert later, the quiet mocking him. And the only place he could find Shiro’s face was in the standard news broadcast of a doomed scientific mission, a clinical report detailing how it had been Takashi Shirogane’s fault— _pilot error_ , they called it. They didn’t note how the promising young pilot was known to be kind, and protective—how he had been the first person to treat Keith like a friend rather than a rival or a burden.

Although none of it didn’t matter, because Keith was still alone, because Shiro wasn’t here. There was nothing but the endless stretch of desert and a ruined career that had been in the first stages of potential greatness, preluding how the universe could’ve been changed for the better with Shiro in it. But Shiro wasn’t coming back, he wasn’t, and Keith was alone—

Abandoned, _forgotten_ —

Because Shiro was dead, he was never coming back.

“Keith!” There was a voice, a sudden press of something warm and light to his face.

He lashed out, blind in his sadness and anger, fighting the memory of what once was. It was still dark, but Keith’s focus was clearing, sharpening down to a few singular points of interest. That was his gloves laying against the bedside table, and his sheets twisted around his legs, although the sight of a large vest hanging from a nearby chair was a direct hit to the chest. It was too big and too dark to be Keith’s—the shape and cut of it fitted to another person, someone who took all the light from the world when he left it.

“Keith, I’m here.” Someone was speaking again, closer, louder.

Adrenaline surged in his veins, the gaping wound of his memories forcing Keith to ignore everything that promised hope in the far-off presence of familiarity. Keith struggled fruitlessly in an iron-steady grip, his arms were locked into place, and so instead Keith thrashed his legs until his feet slammed into soft flesh, his restrained mobility preventing further damage.

Keith was prepared to fight, but there was only a short breath of surprise before Keith felt his entire body fold into an encompassing solidness, warm and tangible.

There was a slight exhale of heat over Keith’s neck. “It’s okay, come back.”

Shiro’s name was still plastered across the newsfeed, proclaiming a failed mission, and three subsequent deaths—pilot error; his fault, _Shiro’s_ fault.

“Keith, please.”

He was alone, Shiro was dead—gone.

“Come back.”

Shiro wasn’t here, he would never be again.

“I can’t lose you.”

Keith’s panic was still scratching at the underside of his ribcage, desperate to rage, but he was held back. Not by a guiding force, but by an offered security only one person he knew could provide. Keith could recognise the familiar cadence of breathing, the rise and fall of a broad chest under his cheek.

Lips forming a name, Keith felt the large arms bracketing his body loosen in relief, softening just as his fear faded, his heart no longer threatening to burst. His eyes adjusting to the minimal light, Keith chose to raise his head, noting the scars patterning the curve and dips of the naked collarbone in front of him. He ignored the pang, that stab of clarity that anchored him to reality—becoming a Paladin, and the Lions, Voltron, _Shiro_ —because he was stopped at the first glimmer of a smile, of how Shiro’s whole face seemed to grow more beautiful with the sight of it.

“Shiro?” Keith asked, because he needed to hear it.

“It’s me.”

Before, when Shiro had awoken in that desert shack for the first time since Kerberos, their reunion had been messier, laden with a million unspoken emotions they could hardly begin to voice. But now—Keith could only frantically scramble onto his knees, rising upwards to wrap his arms around Shiro’s neck and _hold_.

Keith felt Shiro lean backwards at the sudden force of Keith’s desperate hug, his arms moving to secure Keith’s thin waist in an automatic, protective instinct. There was a shaken breath of air that fluttered Keith’s hair, and then Shiro was nuzzling into him, pulling him even closer. Keith allowed his tense embrace to slacken, lowering himself down into Shiro’s lap, straddling him so they were pressed flush in a tight locking of need.

“You’re okay?” Keith heard himself ask, a hoarse plea.

“Yeah.”

“You’re here?”

Quieter, softer: “Yeah. I’m not leaving.”

Keith dropped his head, resting it where the broad line of Shiro’s shoulder curved into the waiting cradle of his neck. The heat of his flesh, the strong shape of it—Keith found comfort in how familiar and steady Shiro was, how he always managed to be Keith’s point of calm amidst the turbulent storm.

It was true that Keith was more accustomed to dealing with the fallout of Shiro’s nightmares, which were frequent, and twice as violent as Keith’s. Whereas Shiro sometimes woke to silence, his tense twitches imperceptible to Keith’s deep slumber, he was prone to ignoring his own suffering. Keith scarcely woke to the sight of Shiro’s shoulders shaking, his gaze vague and unfocused as he sat forlornly at the edge of the mattress. But when he did—Shiro was unmovable, a weak shell of his former self.

Despite Keith’s effort to comfort Shiro, to coax him back under the sheets, the mere act of anchoring Shiro to the tentative hope of this reality was near impossible. Most nights Keith was rendered helpless as he watched Shiro reject his touch, moving away, his back a solid line of rigid tension. Keith hadn’t managed to find Shiro after when he was like that, but he still tried, he still spent the remaining hours of darkness searching for a lone figure which lingered in his own self-imposed exile.

The internal damage of the year Shiro had spent in captivity hadn’t been repaired, it had barely been acknowledged, although Keith knew he could be patient. No matter how short-fused his temper was, nor how easily his tolerance wore thin, Keith would wait forever for Shiro to turn back to him rather than away.

And Keith believed this because whenever Shiro managed to gather his thoughts, scraping a semblance of composure together, he returned to Keith without fault. Sometimes, Shiro wrapped his arms around Keith from behind—unwilling to face him—or pushed him back into the bed or couch so he could cover Keith’s body with his own, so he could melt into the promise of finding him once again. He didn’t speak much, instead Shiro relied on action rather words to convey the depth of his fear, his single-minded need to hinge his emotions and future on Keith’s presence.

However, the wreckage of Keith’s nightmares—far and few between—led to one simple coping mechanism: touch. Shiro never failed to accommodate to Keith’s needs, never didn’t offer what Keith asked for. Between the heavy-lidded glances and soft edges of Shiro’s smile, Keith thought that maybe Shiro found more comfort than he did in those moments. Shiro was content to serve a purpose no matter the circumstances, and if the outcome resulted in Keith curled into his side, then he was never happier to oblige.

“You okay?” Shiro whispered again, feeling Keith beginning to draw backwards.

Keith mumbled something against Shiro’s skin, his shoulders loosening.

“What was that?” The smile was evident in Shiro’s voice.

“Want you.”

A sudden stillness seized Shiro, and Keith felt his face flame red, felt his heartbeat race at his brazen admission. He raised his chin, forcing his bones to turn to steel as he met Shiro’s open gaze. Keith’s near impervious confidence was subsequent to faltering whenever he was subject to Shiro’s keen scrutiny, nervous electricity skating along his skin under the weight of Shiro’s direct attention.

“Shiro?” Keith prompted.

He knew how he looked—staring up at Shiro through half-shuttered eyelashes, a healthy blush hidden under the dark, messy tufts of his hair. And Keith also knew that Shiro was much less guarded in private, and infinitely more prone to succumbing to weakness—sometimes it was the dark pit of his own blurred memories, but sometimes it was Keith too.

“You sure?”

Keith nodded at Shiro’s tentative answer. He was worried that Shiro wouldn’t willingly comply to Keith’s need for touch, that he’d think it was wrong to do more than offer gentle support after such vivid nightmares. But Keith should’ve never doubted that Shiro would think his quietly whispered needs was anything other than an affirmation of the deep foundations of mutual trust and respect they had for one another. It was a silent promise of hope, a sweet kindling of deep admiration and love—it was the one stalwart thing Keith could depend on in this universe, and what Shiro also worked to protect.

The corners of Keith’s mouth curled upwards, and he nodded with an uncommon shyness. Shiro dipped his head, grey eyes shining with a harmless teasing glint, as if Keith’s inclination to teenage bashfulness in intimate situations was almost endearing—an adjective rarely used to describe Keith.

“I’m sure,” Keith said later, almost belatedly. He spoke partly to deflect from Shiro’s growing amusement, and to also confirm that he did in fact want this, because he knew Shiro just needed to hear it aloud sometimes.

Keith felt his centre of gravity shift as Shiro leaned closer to him, near falling into the solid warmth of him, blazing at the sudden contact of skin-to-skin. A short huff of air brushed over Keith’s exposed shoulder, and then Shiro was nuzzling against Keith’s hair like a cat, affection evident in his playful gesture. Shiro indulged in touch during the time he was permitted to act without consequences, and now was no exception. Noting how Keith’s chest rose in a sharp, breathless inhalation, Shiro aligned their mouths in the dark, separated by no more than a whisper of moisture and taste.

Like all things, Shiro kissed with purpose. He wasn’t a man who was quick to such things as dalliance or frivolity, instead the intent was laid clear through actions. There was meaning behind every adjusted angle of Shiro’s lips, every defiant press of his fingertips, and every small noise of unthinking pleasure. At first it was slow and careful, a familiar step to something that was liable to lose control, to spiral into a furious melding of limbs and desire.

Seated on Shiro’s lap, Keith was at the same relative height as Shiro, so he could kiss with more ease than usual. The contact shared between them was firm, and soon their mouths opened without thought, simple movements turning to a more visceral exercise of emotions. The wet heat of Shiro’s mouth pulled a moan deep from the recesses of Keith’s chest, and he was quick to fall headfirst into his desperation for touch, to assure himself that what he was feeling was real.

Keith was wakeful now, feeling something stirring low and dangerous in his groin, attuned to how Shiro’s back flexed in a sinuous motion beneath Keith’s palms. Even at the Galaxy Garrison Keith had been entranced by the sight of Shiro during training, and more so in private, where he could truly marvel at the defined planes and tone of his muscles, and the defined lines of his profile. It was true that Shiro had returned more rugged, and maybe a little worn at the frayed seams, but Keith could never cease to be grateful that he had the chance to be with Shiro now, whole or not.

There must have been a moment lost between Keith’s surrendering to the pull of arousal, to the demanding presence of Shiro so close and so willing, because soon Shiro’s hands had drifted to his waist. And then he was pulling Keith closer, Shiro’s hands fanning over the slim breadth of his back, so their hips were slotted together. Keith gasped at the pang of sudden touch, the spike of _more,_ and Shiro’s breath shuddered.

Keith blinked owlishly, his laboured breathing near mirroring Shiro’s shallow panting. Time seemed to stop there again, and Keith allowed his full weight to settle against Shiro until there was another pointed brush of friction, a sharp gasp cutting through the air. Keith’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth as Shiro’s fingers climbed up his back, tracing the shape of his spine. It was distracting and relaxing at the same time, leaning just on the right side of the former before Keith shifted in his seat—a bitten-off grunt, a subtle jerk of Shiro’s shoulders forward—and then Shiro’s lips were on Keith’s collarbone, all air seeming to have left his lungs in a powerful rush.

 _Heat_ —Keith had always sought it in space, where everything was vast and endless and cold, but whenever he was with Shiro there was warmth. A hand resting on his thigh or lower back, a mouth brushing his ear, a low murmur that made him blush—the very atmosphere seemed too thick with it, honey-thick and heady and _wonderful_. It was like Keith’s chest almost burned with Shiro’s offered affection, like a new sun had just crested over the horizon of a foreign planet.

A whine escaped Keith’s throat, a high echo of helplessness that rung in the gleaming room. Shiro raised his chin, concerned despite his own piqued interested below the waistband of his thin sweatpants. There was a question laden in the careful movements of Shiro’s fingers, brushing the pink flush cast over Keith’s cheeks— _Is this okay?_

“I’m fine,” Keith managed to say, smiling so quickly it was almost giddy, nervous.

Shiro looked dubious, and Keith knew his self-constraint was so great he could pull back, and maybe convince them to sleep rather than continue, so Keith knew he had to take drastic measures. He tipped backwards, arms stretched out so his fingers were anchored to the breadth of Shiro’s shoulders as his spine bent, arching into a delicate bow. Shiro faltered, his gaze flickering down to the taut stretch of fabric over Keith’s abdomen, at how Keith’s sleeping shorts were rucked high over his thighs.

“Shiro?” Keith asked, like it was an invitation.

Fortunately, Keith was prepared for how Shiro’s hands slipped around to push his shirt up higher, demanding more skin. Keith clenched his legs against Shiro’s sides, rolling his hips into Shiro’s just slightly in a prelude to what would come. He was smiling when Shiro’s fingers came to rest over his sternum, shirt bunched over his wrist, and then he was grinning when Shiro found his lips again.

Keith kissed back with a renewed fervour, firm, but never outright hard or violent. It wasn’t an exercise of animal instinct, it wasn’t sudden and blinding—but it was a strong bond of deep-rooted emotion, built on the sturdy foundations of the upmost faith in one another.

As Shiro matched him play by play Keith made a small noise of pleasure, submitting as Shiro surged into the kiss, and instead Keith sucked at Shiro’s bottom lip as an alternative manoeuvre to underhand him.

Sometimes it reminded Keith a lot about their time spent sparring, at reading each other’s movements and subtle tics to find the best pace, the most effective actions. Well, except less strategic in the general sense of kissing, and also the hormone-driven mess which followed soon after.

But the fact remained clear—Shiro had always been Keith’s equal, or he had worked to ensure Keith was pursuing the same independent footing he had as a person. There seemed to be a lacking nuance to their relationship, but Keith knew Shiro was comforted by the plain simplicity for their feelings, and how easily their bond could be understood and respected. Considering the chaotic events of the past year, they both seemed to appreciate a little straightforwardness—their uncomplicated relationship wasn’t a negative aspect, not in the least.

Thrust back into reality by the slight widening of Shiro’s knees under him, Keith alternated the position of his hands from Shiro’s shoulders to his hair. He found stable purchase in the thick strands, opening his mouth to coax Shiro into asking for more, into chasing more rewarding outcomes.

Keith didn’t have to wait long, because Shiro seemed to have noticed the small changes in breathing and touch, and had seemingly predicted Keith’s actions beforehand. Shiro had already mirrored Keith’s attempts to deepen the kiss, and there was a hesitant hint of tongue—a probing of slick heat that made Keith whine, made him tighten his grip on Shiro’s hair.

And, with the assurance Keith was willing— _anticipating_ —Shiro allowed his hands to drop, locking his arms around Keith’s middle. Shiro made a low grunt as Keith pressed to him, their pelvises grinding again—warmth, friction, a build of unmistakeable pressure. Their mouths were melding together now, so intent on being close that taste and touch was blurring, reduced to nothing more than a connection of wet heat shared between them.

“Shiro,” Ketih heard himself pant, the name slurred and cut short as Shiro moved to close the distance stretched from one to another without hesitation. Keith relented, running his fingers over Shiro’s scalp for just a moment of indulgence before trying to lean out of his reach again. Shiro’s advances were thwarted as Keith pulled his singlet over his head, effectively blocking him from continuing to kiss Keith, but he should’ve at least expected Shiro to stop him talking.

Now there seemed to be no need for Keith to voice his thoughts, to whisper— _please, Shiro, I want more_ —because Shiro shifted, holding Keith even closer to him. Shiro managed to support the brunt of Keith’s weight as he moved, legs curling under him as he surged forward, pushing Keith’s back into the mattress. Shiro braced his hands on either side of Keith’s head, swooping low to kiss him as his hands slid down to cup one of Keith’s spread thighs, pushing them open wider.

Keith uttered a gasp, shaky and slight, like a bird taking flight for the first time. Because Shiro was pressing down into him—all of Shiro. Their difference in physical stature never seemed more evident than when Keith was pinned beneath Shiro, their bodies brushing together—the teasing promise of contact almost cruel—and then slotting together in a firm lock of limbs and mouths, fingers grasping for purchase over flexing muscle and bare skin, alighting a trail of fire in their wake. The affect was dizzying, overwhelming.

Shiro seemed confident that the position was adequate before finally— _finally_ —pushing against Keith’s thighs until they bent at the knee, legs curving over Shiro’s sides to urge him on, to lessen the distance, to do _something_. And then his groin was pressed flush to Keith’s, and despite all their writhing and grinding, nothing could compare to the sudden ignition of friction. Keith was hard, and Shiro wasn’t faring much better, considering the way the latter’s chest seemed to brace with the sheer concentrated willpower of restraint—withholding from moving without control, of taking and taking and taking.

“Shiro, please.” It was a whine, a call for the pace to quicken, for there to be nothing left between them. Keith lacked the coherency to notice how Shiro had forgone kissing him to pant heavily into Keith’s neck, as in defeat.

Keith eyes were closed, but he didn’t require his vision to thrust upwards against Shiro shallowly, his freedom of movement restricted but nonetheless satisfying. Shiro’s entire being seemed to vibrate with the low, rumbling noise that reverberated under his ribcage, and he mouthed at Keith’s neck in a way of appeasement before gaining a sense of composure to follow a more confident move.

“Keith?”  Shiro asked as he surfaced, fingers finding Keith’s waistband, just hovering there. It was a question—it was Shiro’s constant method of assured understanding between them, even when he just wanted to move blindly, to feel on the purest, most base level.

“Yes, do it.” Keith’s tone was desperate, and maybe a little too eager. “Please, Shiro.”

Shiro kissed the corner of Keith’s mouth then, fingers deftly hooking into the inside of Keith’s shorts and then _pulling_. Shiro pushed backwards to tug the last offending article of clothing from both Keith’s legs, pausing a moment to admire the sprawled, naked sight of Keith beneath him.

“Hey,” Keith said, breathless. “C’mon.”

“In a sec.”

A quiver shook Keith’s bones, made his skin shiver at the lazy, happy sound of Shiro’s voice. He was flushing red at the embarrassment of being so open to Shiro, even under the dim lighting, but he wasn’t uncomfortable. There was just something about the intense, pleased sweep of Shiro’s gaze as he looked over Keith, the weight of it almost a tangible touch over Keith’s sweat-damp skin.

“Shiro,” Keith warned, rising onto his elbows.

“I know, I know.”

Keith had planned to admonish Shiro before his breath caught somewhere in his throat, lodging there as he looked, properly, at Shiro. His smile was like a knife between Keith’s ribs, uncounted in its shining brilliance, the flash of teeth genuine and content—the least harried he’d looked in days. Shrio reached for one of Keith’s legs, grasping it in a surprisingly gentle hold to place a reverent kiss to the inside of his knee in apology.

“Better?” Shiro asked, quiet and teasing.

Weak with the barefaced truth that he was always better with Shiro kneeling between his spread legs, Keith said, “I am.” _Always, forever_.

Shiro seemed pleased with the answer, and moved so far forward their mouths bumped together gently, kissing with an intimate playfulness. Keith felt like something stupid was going to spill out, but fortunately Shiro’s hands were moving with intent again, slipping down the space between their bodies to find Keith’s entrance.

Keith’s gasp was muffled by the open seam of Shiro’s lips, hovering just above his. Attuned to the testing pressure of Shiro’s fingertips, Keith’s heels dug into the matters, his inner thighs squeezing Shiro’s sides as he flung his head back to try and find some semblance of calm. Shiro hummed against the smooth column of Keith’s neck, the soft buzz of pacification so different from the careful, if determined, intrusion of Shiro’s fingers.

As expected, Shiro was slow and methodical in his actions, opening Keith like it was their first time together, at that lone shack in the desert. However, when they had been nervous and laughing a little too much before, it was quiet now save for Keith’s hitched inhales, and the quivering shudders of breath as his pain was soothed into pleasure. Shiro was nuzzling into Keith’s neck again, his broad body braced over him like a reassurance of comfort and warmth, covering Keith so fully that his mind was focused solely on Shiro—although it was rarely anything other.

When Keith felt like he would shatter with the insurmountable energy coiling in his abdomen, low and dangerous, he turned into the side of Shiro’s head, a hand sliding over the rounded curve of his shoulder. Shiro’s fingers paused inside Keith—long and clever and familiar—before he shifted to catch Keith’s gaze, but he couldn’t do much, he could barely nod in permission.

Shiro kissed Keith, the contact long but chaste, and then moved backwards. There was rustling as Shiro slipped his pants off, now naked as his partner. Keith was concentrating on breathing in and out, in and out, as Shiro guided Keith’s legs over his shoulders. He waited a beat, wanting but nervous, and then he felt Shiro again—larger, hotter.

And there was a stretch, an imagined sting of resistance—

“ _Shiro_.” It was a dying man’s prayer, the name spoken hushed and absolute.

“It’s okay,” Shiro said, feeling as if the comfort needed to be audible. Needed to be more than the gentle, supportive press of fingers over Keith’s bare thigh, the other braced on the rumpled sheets of the bed.

Again: “Shiro.”

All words seemed to elude Keith, because he was being filled with Shiro, connecting with the one person he admired most, the one whom he never wanted to part from. The overwhelming crush of acknowledgement that Shiro was moving _inside_ him made Keith’s entire world narrow down to simple touch, to snatches of sound. That was the jagged line of Shiro’s scar, the tense strain of muscles in his thighs, the dip of his collarbone, the tremble in his voice as it passed the boundary of his lips.

Again, louder: “Shiro.”

Shiro must’ve noticed an underlying emotion to Keith’s voice that he himself couldn’t recognise, because soon Shiro was bending, leaning forward—going deep, deep, _deep_ —so he could hold Keith’s eyes instead of the latter hiding from him entirely.

“I’m here,” Shiro murmured along the line of Keith’s jaw, kissing him softly, no more than a brief peck. Their noses bumped again, and Shiro’s smile was so gentle, so intimate, that Keith swallowed as a reflex. Shiro adjusted the position of his knees, the slight change in pressure causing white-hot sensation to spark along Keith’s spine, his toes curling.

Keith felt emotion swell in his chest, daunting and unable to ignore—maybe the blame for his sudden dependency could be found in the sickening loss of Shiro in his nightmares, and how he was here now. He whimpered, wrapping his arms around Shiro so tight that Keith pulled himself up from the bed, almost hanging onto Shiro. Keith didn’t want to think right now, he just wanted to feel—he wanted to assure himself that nothing would happen, that this was his future.

“Keith?” Shiro sounded concerned, going still.

“I love you,” Keith confessed, loud and shaking. It wasn’t the first time he said it—and not the last, there would never be a last—but he wanted Shiro to know. He wanted there to be nothing left to doubt between them, just an infinite well of trust and hope and companionship.

“What’s wrong?” Shiro moved to pull Keith’s arms from around his neck, but he made a distressing noise, hating that the thought of letting go terrified him.

“I love you, Shiro.”

There was a moment where Keith thought this was too much, that they had to stop, but then Shiro was relaxing in Keith’s embrace. He hummed again, a comforting noise that made Keith’s twisted innards unwind, loosening.

“Keith?”

“Yeah?” He sounded small.

“I love you too.”

Keith felt the tightness in the chest ease, felt his panic settle into something that was wonderful and golden. He pressed a kiss to Shiro’s neck, just below his hairline, before pulling back, but Shiro caught one of his arms.

“Keep it there,” Shiro said, guiding Keith’s hand back to its place looped over his shoulders. Keith blinked as Shiro found Keith’s other hand, and he twined their fingers together, squeezing.

Keith remembered how to speak, only to be swiftly interrupted, “Shiro—”

“It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was something that Keith remembered from the time spent in the darkness of their desert shack, whispered and private and eternal. “Shiro loves you, baby.”

Keith’s mouth curled into a fond shape, something reflected in Shiro’s ever-present smile.

Shiro’s other arm slipped just under Keith’s shoulder, so he could rest on his forearm for a stable purchase and keep their bodies close, centred on the weight of friction on bare, sensitive skin. Despite how the positon hindered Shiro’s ability to move freely, or powerfully, Keith was glad it was like this—he needed it.

In truth, he needed Shiro.

“You okay?” Shiro asked.

Keith nodded.

Although Keith’s arousal had faded during the moments he’d been cast adrift, Shiro was quick to rouse his interest again. It was a little awkward, but Shiro was thrusting forward with a slowness that travelled so far deep inside Keith he had to bite his lip to keep from gasping. The pressure was building, the embers coaxed to life once again, and it was sweeter than usual, like Keith was solely focused on the amount of care Shiro treated him with.

Like all forms of sex, it was still heady, but something about the way Shiro held onto Keith’s hand throughout made a calmness settle over him, made him want to cry out at the unhurried joining of his and Shiro’s bodies. Keith did want this—the exquisite pleasure, the comforting knowledge of unparamounted affection and trust—and he never wanted it to end.

Shiro’s head was cradled in the curve of Keith’s neck, and he grunted when he felt Keith’s fingers entangle in his hair, bringing him closer. Keith whispered for him to let go, to go faster—and Shiro did.

He shifted so their bodies weren’t so closely aligned, and rolling his hips forward with the entire flex of his body, so Keith could feel every quiver and strain of his muscles and sinew, could hear him pant in the accepted quiet. Keith’s legs moved further upwards to urge Shiro on, heels melding into his flesh as he moved at a quicker pace, edging closer to a wild abandon.

“Shiro, please,” Keith cried, still connected by their linked hands, the firm press of Shiro’s hips into him as he pushed Keith up the bed with the force of it.

Shiro’s grip on Keith was almost bruising, and his thrusts became shorter, his control threatening to break. Keith arched his back, so Shiro went inside him further, to the place which made Keith near scream, an electric shock running through him. Shiro groaned at the sound of Keith’s voice, at the way his body clenched around him, and he finally—let go.

Keith watched as Shiro came undone, watched as his eyes shuttered to a close and his mouth opened in wordless pleasure, feeling a hot pulse spill into the very depths of him. And he liked it—the heat and sweat-slick embrace, the pleasurable strain of muscles—because Keith knew that he was the only person who was allowed to see Shiro like this.

Shiro slumped forward, the hand not gripping Keith seeming to shake, and his entire arm tremored before his hefty weight pressed down onto Keith. But this—the way Shiro always turned to Keith when he was spent, when his mind was a blank slate of bliss that seemed intent on finding Keith’s mouth, on saying his name—was precious. Keith was glad for the quiet stillness of night, and how it made Shiro feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable.

After a moment, Shiro moved onto his elbows with a bleary-eyed slowness, smiling unabashed at Keith. “Sorry,” he mumbled, lips pressing against Keith’s once, twice. Shiro was smiling more than kissing. “I forgot about you.”

Keith made a noise of amused agreement, and he was about to speak before Shiro slipped his hand down to grip his erection. Shiro didn’t seem concerned with still being inside Keith, which was an another key point of sensation that nearly made Keith whine at the increased tempo of Shiro’s firm, almost uncoordinated strokes.

Shiro placed a light kiss over Keith’s collarbone, squeezing his hand just before jerking his hips forward, and Keith felt come slip outside of him—and that was Shiro, inside and over and _close_ to him. He couldn’t ever be scared of the past or the future when he had this, a present in which he could wake up to Shiro, when he never had to leave him.

Keith came like he had every time before—with Shiro’s name on his lips, fumbling to kiss him, clumsy and messy and perfect. The orgasm was wrung out of him, expelling every last drop of energy and tension until Keith was as loose-limbed and heavy as Shiro. He revelled in the simple weight of their bodies locked together, ignoring the smallest ache of discomfort.

The fingers wound around Keith’s spread open, loosening until their hands separated. Keith would’ve voiced his objection, but Shiro used both arms to wrap around Keith, rolling over just so he could fold Keith into his side better. Shiro grunted as he slipped free from Keith, but his displeasure soon vanished as Keith burrowed into Shiro’s chest, sliding a leg between Shiro’s thighs. It was a little wet, and sloppy, but there was no complaint on either ends.

“You okay?” Shiro had been asking the same question throughout the night, but now he spoke like he expected an answer that wasn’t a nod or murmur of assent.

Keith paused, considering his response. “I am with you here,” he mumbled into the line of Shiro’s collarbone, the tang of sweat and musk enveloping him.

Shiro hummed in pleasure, running a hand down Keith’s back, the other still curled around the entire scope of Keith’s back like a protective band. Keith’s mind didn’t wander into the abyss of his own memories, because they were no longer relevant—Shiro was here, he wasn’t going to leave again. It was okay, because Keith could believe that maybe their future would be better than what he ever dared to hope.

Keith felt Shiro’s lips press to his forehead, soft and feather-light. It was like a benediction, a silent pledge that Keith was something he cherished, that Shiro would fight to keep safe. Lulled into that promise of security, Keith nuzzled into Shiro’s embrace, knowing that he would be the first to sleep. And that he’d wake up with Shiro’s arm flung over his waist, and his face pressed into the slope of Keith’s neck.

The next day would come—and it would be okay.

It was going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I was listening to Tokyo Ghoul OP "Unravel" whilst writing this and my dad walked in from the next room just to throw his jumper at me in distaste because I was singing so loud ~ R.I.P MY SINGING CAREER ~ but, also, the Psycho Pass ED "Monster" serves as surprisingly good soundtrack for writing smut.
> 
> Guess who wants to talk about that Totally Manly Shoulder Touch in episode 1 of Voltron on [tumblr](http://diggitydamnsebastianstan.tumblr.com/)? That's right. It me.


End file.
